


The Perils of the Storm

by osunism



Series: Ghostline [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Origin Story, now with art!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shame of House Trevelyan began with a birthday party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perils of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have been following my DAI fanfic series, you’ll notice I have a tendency to reference the backstory of my Inquisitor and her family, and that I’m a sucker for fic continuity. In Ariadne’s story, “Cleaning House”, I reference an affair that resulted in her existence between Lady Trevelyan and the Knight Commander of the Ostwick Circle, which was also briefly glimpsed by Hadiza in her own origin story, “Blue Smoke.” I got to thinking that since this affair has had such a cascading effect on the lives of the scions of House Trevelyan, why not delve into it?
> 
> The result is this short story.

            They meet during a wet and cold Ostwick winter during a fête.

Bann Edward Trevelyan has thrown open the doors of his noble House to honor his wife, the Lady Evangeline, on the day of her birth. Nobility from every corner of Ostwick are invited, and the Bann even gets an invitation to his oldest and dearest friend, Knight-Commander Frederick, who leads the Templars at the Circle tower in Ostwick. The dour man is initially inclined to refuse the invitation, but after some convincing, relents to make a brief appearance, if only to catch up and wish the Bann’s wife a happy name-day.

            He arrives, true to his nature, in full-plate armor, much to the amusement of Edward.

            “You made it!” Edward barks in his deep brogue. Frederick gives his friend a tight smile, and allows himself to be led inside the sprawling estate, where the celebration is in full swing. An ensemble of musicians is seated on the raised dais of the main hall’s marble floor, providing music. Nobility move in intricate patterns of various dances, while some gather in cloisters to gossip and engage in the neverending politicking that burdened their privileged shoulders. Frederick finds the entire situation ridiculous, but says nothing.

            “Is the guest of honor present?” He asks as Edward pauses an elven servant bearing a tray laden with champagne flutes. He offers a glass to Frederick who declines. He means to return to the Circle immediately after he has wished the Lady Evangeline a happy name day. He already feels as if he has been away too long, and as he is the only Templar present, it puts him in the uncomfortable position of being heavily scrutinized.

            “Oh she’ll be along soon enough,” Edward says flippantly, “she’s got a flare for theatrics. I’m sure she’ll make an entrance soon enough, bestowing herself like a queen.” Edward tosses back his champagne with the ease of one heavily familiar with inebriating beverages, and Frederick shakes his head. The man always could drink like a fish, but now is not the time to be fogging the brain. He crosses his arms, decidedly uncomfortable waiting for the Lady of House Trevelyan to make an appearance.

            As if on cue, there is an audible and collective gasp from the glittering assembly of nobility. All heads turn to the grand staircase leading up to the private apartments of the Trevelyan family, and standing at the top landing is the most beautiful woman Frederick has ever laid eyes on. He has never seen Lady Trevelyan save in passing, as she is always away at some social gathering or another, but here she is, in full view of Ostwick’s blue-blooded uppercrust, looking as if she stepped from the pages of a fantasy. Frederick’s jaw sets but his eyes go a little wide at the sight. Taking it for mere shock, Edward chuckles at his side.

            “Did I not tell you?” He boasts. “A queen, and no less.”

            Frederick says nothing, as he is still staring.

            Evangeline Trevelyan is a tall and statuesque woman, with the stamp of her Rivaini heritage clear in her unblemished dark brown skin, the upswept braided coif of her pitch-black hair, and the full and softened features of her face. She is all burnished umber and mahogany, her brows elegant and arched, her eyes refusing to match the rest of her, the color of starlight. Gold chandelier earrings drip from her lobes, and a single collar of knotted gold graces the swan-like curve of her neck. Her dress is a sin of expensive tailoring and cloth, and it is _white_. It is as white as the pure driven snow, and it hugs her svelte curves as if it were painted there.

Frederick’s eyes are compelled to follow the line of the dress past the swell of her generous breasts, along the slide of her waist, and to the flaring curves of her hips. The dress ends in a fishtail. The heart shaped bodice has a golden edge to match her jewelry, a bangle of deep gold coils around her left arm like a serpent. She has seamlessly blended the culture of Rivain’s love of gold, their shamelessness in complementing the female form, and the decadence of Orlesian fabric. It is a bold statement against those who would decry her noble blood because she is not a _true_ Marcher. Belatedly, Frederick notices as she turns her head that there are tiny gold clasps interspersed in the intricate braided style she wears.

            Edward is wrong, Frederick decides. The Lady of House Trevelyan does not bestow herself as a queen, but a _goddess_.

            “Maker’s breath, Frederick,” Edward laughs, “take a breath, will you?” Frederick tears his eyes from the glowing woman long enough to stare at his friend. He says nothing, and schools his face to calm. How has Edward managed to marry such a beguiling woman as that? Maker! Frederick watches as the glowing goddess descends the staircase in a true noblewoman’s fashion, with one hand lightly on the banister, and the other holding up her dress to reveal the glittering gold of her high-heeled slippers. She appears to glide, and when she reaches the main hall’s floor, the crowd parts as she makes her way to her husband. Frederick feels his mouth go dry as she approaches, and she waves her hand to the musicians, urging them to continue. Slowly, the murmur of the crowd resumes as the music returns. She stands before the two men, giving her husband the kiss of greeting.

            “Edward,” she says, “are you not going to introduce me to the handsome gentleman?” She smiles at Frederick and the Templar feels as if his heart is clenching. Her smile is the sunrise, as easy and effortless as the rest of her beauty, and Edward chuckles.

            “Ah yes, Eva, this is my old friend Knight-Commander Frederick. He couldn’t even be bothered to change out of his uniform to come, so married to his duty.” Edward’s teasing is tolerated because Evangeline is offering her hand to him, which he takes, gently, and lifts to his lips for a courtly kiss, bowing. He feels as if he is bowing to the very presence of Andraste, and he wonders how Evangeline has not managed to snag herself a king or a prince. Charm radiates from her like perfume and Frederick inhales. She smells like spring after a clean thunderstorm, and the smell imprints itself on his mind. Now, during the warm rains in the coming spring he will think of this moment.

            “A pleasure, my lady,” he murmurs, and means it, “I apologize if I violate any stringent dress code you may be enforcing.” He releases her hand, goes back to standing like a sentinel. Evangeline tosses her head and laughs prettily.

            “Oh you’re quite alright, Knight-Commander,” she breathes, “I do not mind. I did not know Templars had leave to attend such gatherings. How ever did my husband convince you to leave the Circle for a night?” Her eyes settle on him with and easy confidence, expectant and amused. She is trying to fluster him, but he will not rise to the bait. Instead he smiles thinly, shrugging his armored shoulders.

            “I told him there might be mages present,” Edward says in mock irritability, “Templars only seem to move their asses when there’s mages about.” They laugh, and Frederick makes a sound akin to grumbling, rolling his eyes. He does not miss that Evangeline is still watching him.

            “I am under no obligation to attend. It is only because we are friends that I am here. Although your lady wife is reason enough for anyone to attend,” Frederick pauses, fearing he has overstepped his bounds, and quickly adds, “that is to say, she is far more charming than you are.”

            “This is a well-known fact.” Evangeline agrees, laughing and Edward laughs as well. Frederick meets Evangeline’s eyes again when Edward turns to summon one of the servants to bring him more champagne. There is something different, in that moment, something dizzying and electric, like a hit of wine to virgin senses. Frederick takes a deep shuddering breath through his nose. Before he can sort out what has passed between them, Edward flags down a servant bearing a full tray, and turns back to the two of them.

            “This is all very exciting, Edward, but I believe I must return.” Frederick means to leave before too much time has passed. Edward looks slightly disappointed, but he sighs, knowing the importance of Frederick’s duty. Edward may be a joker at heart, but he upholds the tenets of his House with alacrity, and he is satisfied that his friend is at least willing to make an appearance. Aside, Edward is already showing the first signs of inebriation and Frederick does not want to be around for whatever may follow. Evangeline senses the silence has gone on too long and offers to escort Frederick out. Edward absently waves, returning to the party.

            “I do apologize, Knight-Commander,” she is saying as she shrugs on a heavy golden shawl that shimmers, and links her arm in his own, “my husband can get into a bit of a mood when he’s in his cups. It’s a shame you must return to the tower; I hear there will be cake.” She smiles at him impishly.

            Frederick thinks under any other circumstance he would find this woman’s speech to be uninteresting and utterly ridiculous. But Eva’s words are drops of honey, her voice low and soothing, and her charm infectious. She makes him feel as if he were the guest of honor, as if she is having this fête thrown solely to please him.

            _She speaks like this to everyone,_ he thinks bitterly, attempting to explain away the lightheadedness he feels, _do not dare to think above your own station lest you ruin all you have built for yourself._

The rain has stopped, and the paved stones are glistening and slick. The moisture in the air is thick and cool, and he feels Evangeline shiver beneath her heavy shawl.

            “My lady, there is no need for you to see me out, I’d have managed on my own.” He tells her, feeling a twinge of sympathy. He does not want her catching an ague on his account, but he also relishes this moment to look upon the white and gold goddess without the press of eyes on him. He tells himself he is crazy for thinking like this, as this woman is wed to another man, but he cannot help it. She shrugs her shoulders, maintaining her polite smile.

            “Nonsense, ser,” she admonishes playfully. “I’ll not have it said House Trevelyan was rude to their guests. Even the quiet and dour ones.” Another impish grin and Frederick feel the urge overtake him. He wants to taste that smile against his mouth, and he knows without needing to touch her that her skin is hot, that her body moves with a serpentine grace in the arms of a man. He can tell because she walks like a woman who owns the world but revels in the possession of the man she chooses.

            Andraste preserve him, he’s as hard as stone just thinking about it.

            For a moment, he and Evangeline stand there, in the mist, the glow of the lanterns lining the paths dim and hazy. Their silence stretches for a long moment before Evangeline finally speaks.

            “Did you come by horse or carriage?” She asks him, “I’ll have the stable hand bring your mount around, if it please you.” Frederick thinks to himself that he came in the Trevelyan’s personal coach but he needs to walk to clear his head, so he declines the Lady’s offer.

            “Neither, my lady,” he said gently, “I shall go back on foot. The tower is not far, and the walk will do me some good.” Evangeline’s well-kept brows go up and she laughs.

            “Nonsense! I’ll have our coach brought round. I don’t expect you to walk all the way back to that dreary place in this weather and cold.” She flags down one of the guards, ordering him to fetch the driver and footman to bring the Trevelyan coach around and take Frederick back to the tower. He watches her as she does this, marveling at the ease with which she gives orders, a woman used to having her way. He wonders, as he watches the glossy black coach pulled by a team of four matched blood bays come round and stop before them, what Evangeline could ever see in a man as negligent as Edward. The door of the coach is decorated with the Trevelyan coat of arms; the proud and strong profile of a Friesian horse, and Frederick is reminded that it is House Trevelyan that is known in the Marches for its horseflesh, though their profit had since sprawled to other ventures in commerce. As the footman opens the door and Frederick steps inside, Evangeline bids him good evening, and he barely recalls his reply, feeling stiff and uncomfortable.

Inside the coach, the seats are a deep, plush burgundy; the windows decorated with burgundy curtains lined with fringe, and the upholstery the same polished ebony as the outside. The coach rumbles off, and Frederick lets the cadence of the horse’s hooves clopping against the stone drive lull him into deep thought. Evangeline Trevelyan’s charm has not worn off, and it occupies a great deal of his mind. He leans back against the seat, crossing his arms, attempting to cleanse the imprint of her presence from his mind.

He shuts his eyes, and it is as if he has summoned her. There she is, all golden and white and glowing. Her smile is a knife-edge, cutting past the blazing sword on his armor and directly to the flesh. Her laughter is a noose made of silk, and he thinks to himself how he wishes to be at the mercy of her fingertips. Her hands are slender and soft, her voice a low and sultry pitch that rolls over his senses like smooth liquor.

Frederick grits his teeth against the ache in his groin, and feels shame at the sins he summons in his mind. This is his friend’s wife he is fantasizing about, and yet he cannot stop himself. He closes his eyes and that moment comes to him unbidden; her standing at the top of the stairs, looking like a goddess come to survey her supplicants.

That woman decided to marry Edward Trevelyan.

In a way, it is a painful reminder of his lack of noble titles. He is of peasant stock, like so many in the Order, and has no rich family to rely upon should the Order ever deign to cast him out. He does not understand the machinations of the gentry, nor does he have an inclination to begin to learn.

“She is but a foolish fantasy,” he reasons with himself, “nothing more.”

When the coach rumbles to a stop before the Circle Tower of Ostwick, he is relieved when his groin no longer aches, and the dour familiarity of the Circle is a welcome relief from the glittering pageantry of the Trevelyan fête. When he enters the tower and retreats to his quarters, he finds he had no choice but to sleep if he wishes to be free of thoughts of her.

But with the dawn comes the ache of subconscious desire.

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Tumblr user fatalmirage! :)


End file.
